She, The Plate

My blooming flowers, once worn with pride, are stains and scars I wish to hide.

He leaves me in the midst of things,
Like dirty dishes in the sink.
So he may go entertain,
Whomever he will, without refrain.
And I sit alone and think,
How different I felt before I was used.

He bought me as a China plate,
A gold embroidered set of eight.
I served him as good plates do.
Allowed my scratches to accrue.
With the years I wear away,
Witnessing my own decay.

Upon my chest he does eat,
And I still serve and do deplete.
My blooming flowers, once worn with pride,
are stains and scars I wish to hide.
A few more uses until I shatter,
Broken girl, on a platter.
And so I wait, a dirty plate,
Day by day, less ornate.